No Child of Mine
by PASIV-Dreamscape
Summary: Stiles is the comedic relief; The lame smart guy with the crappy jeep and a lingering crush for a girl he can't have. He's the son of a great Sheriff, best friend to a werewolf, bench warmer of his schools sports team. But under the teens cheerful guise, his past plagues him. 'Stiles' is a perfect fraud, an easy thing to fake & hide into. The fresh bruises? Not so much. ABUSE. AU.


**A/N- Based around the beginning of Season 2.**  
**Stiles angst centric.**  
**Contains Child Abuse.**

**Somewhat AU.**  
**This story will contain most to all characters of the show, but will concentrate on those most focused on.**

Something my readers always tell me to warn them about is the sudden time shifts. I do this thing where I mend situations, and scrambles tenses. But it's more of a flow attempt to get the story running. Hopefully it doesn't get too confusing.  
But if this helps any; beginning = **Somewhat Current, more so past, with story AU approach detail (where this is coming from, etc). Middle = Past. Near end = Past shifting to current.**

Happy angst reading.

* * *

They say pain is something you gradually get used to.

As an infant, you cry over the most trivial of injuries- because each one is a new sensation, and they truly hurt.  
And as time passes and you grow older, the scratches on your knee don't shoot bolts of pain up your spine like they did when you were a kid.

You become more mentally and physically prepared- you're able to handle it far better than before. So when you obtain a new bruise, rather than wail out, you suck in a breath, you curl into yourself, maybe curse a bit while glaring at the object that was to partially blame for the new blemish.

But then there are those who never get used to it, because they can't, or because they were hardly victim to any injuries that would make them stronger.

These individuals cry frequently, over broken emotions or scratches along their knuckles. They are far more vulnerable, they are weak. They're annoying, finding any mark or ache on their body a reason to complain and share a tale about its origin.

Stiles was, fortunately, taught to never become the latter grouping of weak individuals.  
Not through his father, but through his step father, who showed him that being weak meant that he was an easy target.

And it wasn't a lecture of words, but of fists and kicks.

It was the sacrifice of money invested in hospital bills every time a rib was broken, or a scar too deep.

In the beginning, Stiles would scream, yell, sometimes cry in protest as he was beaten, too young and weak to defend himself. He would sometimes call for his mother, who was too afraid and weak herself to step in.

At times she would yell, demanding it stop. And sometimes it worked. But rarely did she put in an aiding hand; however, Stiles never blamed her for it. She did as much as she could, and he learned from a very young age that she wasn't the target, but it was him. So he should learn how to defend himself, he should put his hands out and try to keep himself from getting hurt, not ask for the aid of others.

For years he tried that method, but he failed continuously.

It wasn't until the death of his mother that he was able to escape, to go and return with his genetic father, to live a life he believed he had never been able to witness before.

But it wasn't any different. His father was a drunk, a complete mess after losing the love of his life, the mother to his child, the woman that left him because he couldn't get it together, the same one who took their child, afraid that the alcoholism would ruin a son- would teach him wrong rather than right.

However, she was mistaken, and again, she fell for the wrong guy, who, at first, had seemed everything but horrid.

When Stiles was five, the man came into their life.

He was charming, all smiles and wit, intelligent and powerful in the sense of money.  
But one day he snapped, and it happened when Stiles was left under his care for the night.

His step dad got violent, started yelling at Stiles for things the boy couldn't understand at such a young age. He beat the boy in places where he was sure the mother wouldn't notice, and then demanded that the boy keep his silence, or he'd face worse the next round.

But of course, at only five, Stiles wasn't completely independent, and his mother would aid him with a change of clothes on laundry day, or starting the bath. When she saw the bruises, she gasped and, in hysterics, demanded an answer. Stiles was clever though, and he only shrugged and said he got in a fight with the boys in class. His mother sighed, it was in her nature. She wouldn't approve of such behavior, but she wouldn't lecture him.

He smiled, she smiled and told him never to do it again.

And it seemed like the boy did do it again, almost weekly.

At some point, his mother had enough, and she started yelling at Stiles, telling him he couldn't do that, violence was wrong, and that if he kept provoking the students, he'd get expelled. But it was her way of ensuring his future, rather than blaming him for anything. Sickly and pale, she calmed after a moment of shouting at her blank faced son, and sat, muttering how she'd have to talk to the teachers about the situation.

It only became more confusing when she did, in fact, go directly to the teacher without asking for a meeting a few days later before class, nearly losing what little self control she had, demanding to know why this hadn't been taken care off. When the teacher gave her a rather confused look, with a touch of horrified, telling Ms. Stilinski that Stiles was never in a fight, during school hours at the very least, because recess wasn't allowed during the winter.

As if trying to test the situation further, Stiles' mother would pick him up immediately after school and would drop him off every morning, to make sure that her son wasn't getting bullied on his way from or to home. But when the bruises didn't stop, she decided to cancel most of her clinical visits.

She would stay at home more, watch her son, lounge on the couch with her new lover as they'd flirt or view a movie on TV. It was then that the bruises started to stop coming. This caught her attention, and so one day, she decided to pretend she was going to a check up early Saturday, and that her boyfriend would have to watch Stiles till the afternoon.

Of course, as usual, he smiled, hugged her, told her good luck with treatment, letting their fingers slide as he gently let go of her hand on her way out, slowly closing the door, Stiles standing behind him, watching his mom leave. She shut the door with a slight grimace of a smile.

Stiles kept his vacant expression, even as the door closed, slowly looking up to his step father, who turned to him with a gentle smile, staring the boy down as the sounds of a car departing lingered. It wasn't until silence consumed the house that it started.

He gave Stiles an almost cheeky grin, excitement in his eyes, before looking at the boy menacingly. He told Stiles they'd have fun, and that it was only fair, because his _'mommy was sick and Stiles was an imposing little brat that was only making her sicker'_.

After two beers, he was pacing towards Stiles, who was sitting on the couch only a room over from the dinning room. Frightened, the boy got up and started running towards the stairs to hide in his room, but his step father was quickly, longer legs, and he grabbed Stile, laughing at him as if the idea of escaping was hysterical.

He had grabbed Stiles from the back of his shirt, tugged him towards him, turned him, picked him up from under his small thin arms, held him in the air to meet eye to eye, and with a threatening smirk, he had inhaled slowly, before finally yelling.

_"She's dying, and it's all because of you! Your mother has cancer, and you don't even give a shit! You're like your father, you're going to be just like your father, you disgusting little piece of shit!-"_

The door flew open as soon as the shouting escalated, the hinges and glass window practically braking. The scene was put to a halt, step-father frozen as he looked towards Stiles' mother.

She gaped at him, horrified, angry, before looking towards her son, who was silently crying. It didn't take long until Stiles broke out in unrestrained sobs, reaching out for his mom.

He thought he was safe at that moment, now that she knew the big secret. But he was wrong. Her condition got worse, she got weaker, far more tired, and he didn't understand why.

His step father didn't hold himself back anymore, and he took advantage of her inability to do most anything. It only made sense to Stiles as he grew, cancer being a rather easy diagnosis to understand. By the time he was 13, she was bed ridden constantly, eventually landing into the ICU.

With a weak smile, she had told Stiles how she had filed a child abuse report against his step-father. But Stiles' smile wasn't genuine. He only smiled to make her feel proud, hopeful, and if she were to die that night- at least she'd feel at rest. As if this was her last purpose or parting gift.

The report got to his father, who didn't hesitate to take Stiles from the man the second his wife's heart monitor pronounced her dead.

But Stiles was reluctant, because his father was torn apart; and alcoholics hardly tend to stray from their comfort source when in grief. But his father promised him he'd stopped, and so Stiles believed him.

And he had stopped, or rather, drunk less. And what wonders that new life was.

It took some time to adjust to a nicer life with little violence, emphasis on the 'little' rather than lack there of. He'd flinch whenever his dad made a quick gesture towards him, and feel ashamed the moment his father looked to him rather confused, only later giving a nod of understanding. He'd tense whenever his father would lose his temper.

At times, Stiles would hardly leave his room. Dinner had to be taken to him, and the two shared a great gap.

It wasn't until one day, his father decided to invite Stiles on a stake-out. They sat in the sheriffs car, the younger Stilinski reading through a book on code words and numbers. It was silent and rather inactive for awhile, but then a call from the radio came in, and Stiles immediately looked towards the intercom, his interest peeked. He asked what that code meant, and his father looked to him as if though Stiles had just said his first words. With a smile and a shrug, his father explained, and off they went.

This became rather routine, being the only way Stiles ever truly socialized with his father, as if the cop car was a sanctity of sorts. But then they started talking at home more. They would have dinners together, and Stiles usually reserved introverted personality began to fade, and in came a socially awkward well humored youth who spared little attention to things.

Stiles had become a completely different person, and his father wasn't entirely sure if he was finally showing his true self, or if this was a sort of façade.

But no one questioned it, because things became better in the Stilinski household.

Stiles did great in school, decided to join the Lacrosse team, decided to finally meet his fathers friends son, Scott McCall, decided to speak out more in class, to make a title for himself. He'd ace his scores, all the while managing to go to Lacrosse practice and stalk his father at work.

Everything seemed alright, not perfect, but certainly better than before.

Until one day, Stiles became cautious, and his father wasn't sure as to why.

There seemed to be secrets, bad associations, rumors of creatures, friendships with alleged felons, unintentional involvements in crime scenes. Suddenly, it seemed as if though the hell that had risen in their county was encircling Stiles and his friend Scott. And try as the teen might, the answers would eventually be found.

And they were.

Stiles didn't have to say anything. Not really. His father had seen a creature, a monster, and he was at a loss for words. He knew there was something odd about the deaths and the M.O involved in the bodies found, but he would never have guessed it had to do with supernatural creatures.

"Werewolves?" The Sheriff asked, brows knotted as he sat across from Stiles at the dinner table, Scott standing behind his son. He exchanged looks with the teens, and when they didn't deny it, he repeated himself. "_Were_wolves?"

Stiles had nodded. "Yeah, dad, werewolves. Half man half wolf?" He explained, seemingly skeptical of even himself, as if unsure of what he had just said.

His father gaped at him, shook his head as he looked to his hands that were clasped atop the table. "But that's…" He looked to his son. "That's impossible. Werewolves are myths, they don't exist-!"

Scott had cut in. "With all due respect, Mr. Stilinski…" He said rather calmly, though his eyes flashed golden before returning to their dark brown shade. "You know what you saw out there in the woods by the Hale house. Or that footage caught from the video store break in… You can't deny-"

"The **hell** I** can't**!" He yelled, slamming his fists against the table, glaring at Scott, but not directing his rage at any of the boys across from him. He didn't fail to notice how Stiles flinched in his seat, practically jumping to his feet, and he instantly regretted his action, calming down.

Scott was at Stiles side almost instantly, a reassuring hand on his friends shoulder- who only seemed to want to get away from the comforting gesture, embarrassed with himself.

The Sheriff spread his hands out, looking to the table, confused, angered. "What am I supposed to do with this information?" He looked to Stiles then to Scott, helpless. "What do I tell them to look out for at the station? Huh?_ 'Bring your silver bullets, we're gonna need to watch out for serial killing werewolves?'_..."

But Scott only pursed his lips in a slight frown, not knowing how to approach this himself.

The teens were eventually dismissed, leaving the older man to think the situation over himself.

Scott was reluctant to leave, staring at Stiles who silently sat at his computers office chair, while the werewolf reserved the mattress as a makeshift seat. Words weren't exchanged for a long moment, until Scott decided to inform Stiles that he didn't smell any alcohol.

Stiles had looked to his friend as if though appalled by checking for such a thing, but then smiled and tilted his head. "I appreciate the motherly nurturing approach Scotty, but you're not a really hot girl with super awesome abilities who can further comfort me." He said, getting up and walking towards his friend, placing a hand on the others shoulder.

Scott shook his head, brows knotted, ready to ask his friend why he was being stupid again until Stiles put a hand up to keep him from speaking.

"Go on now," Stiles gestured towards his door with a nod of his head. "Allison awaits, you masochistic romantic."

Scott had stared at him for a long moment before sighing, shrugging off his friends hand. "You're so lame." He shook his head, watching as Stiles walked away and towards the window.

"And the ladies love it." He turned with a smile, brows furrowing as he immediately noticed how Scott was approaching him. "Oh- No, no, you leave through the **_front_** door, like a normal person." He demanded, hands up as he moved to block the open windows path. When Scott gave him a rather confused look, Stiles nodded, rolling his eyes behind closed lids. "Ok, so my dad knows you're a werewolf, big deal right? Well, the roof tiling to our home doesn't come cheap, and you've already ruined some in the past. Besides, don't want the neighbors talking-"

"Ok!" Scott put a hand up, shaking his head. "Ok, I get it." He turned. "Front door." He muttered as he approached the room door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Stiles nodded, pointing towards his friend. "Yup, at school."

Scott opened the door, looking over his shoulder with a lopsided frown. "And then we have to go to the Hale house. Derek's been acting up again."

Sighing, Stiles slouched as he approached his bed before practically throwing himself onto the mattress. "_Agh_… Why do I have to go? You're more than capable-…" He stared at a silent reluctant Scott for a long moment before it clicked, eyes staring off towards the door frame. "You need me to keep Allison at bay." He muttered to himself, seemingly taken back. Tilting his head in what seemed like dissapointment, Stiles looked towards Scott with a frown and a few small nods. . "When are you **not** gonna tell her about your little missions?"

Pulling an innocent expression, Scott shrugged as he shook his head, staring at Stiles as if though he were being accused of something wrong.

"Fine," Stiles sighed again, laying back onto the mattress, rolling onto his stomach. "I'll go with you to that creepy house after school. Or rather, **drive** you there." He added with a slightly mocking tone.

Rolling his eyes at the additional statement, Scott proceeded out the door. "See ya."

Stiles nodded. "Yup." He replied, playing with a loose threat from his comforter, not looking up or moving even as the door closed.

He could hear Scott descend the staircase, could hear him as he gave the older Stilinski his partings. The front door finally closed, and as if on cue, Stiles rolled onto his back with another great sigh, staring off at the ceiling.

In thought, the teen remained like that for almost an hour before deciding that the proceeding days adventures were unavoidable, and that he was hungry and in desperate need of food.

With a grown, Stile rolled off the bed and landed on all fours, pushing himself to his feet and proceeding towards his room door sluggishly. Without hesitation, or minding the time, knowing that after the news his father would most likely not sleep, he noisily walked down the stairs, turned at the railing when he reached the first floor, and practically stomped towards the kitchen.

Despite his fathers poor efforts of trying some shut eyes upstairs, the lights were all off, as if claiming a days end.

It wasn't until he walked through the dining room to approach the kitchen that Stiles nearly slipped from his skin as he yelped rather loudly, looking towards the table at the sudden voice in the dark.

Sighing, he rolled his eyes. "Jesus," He relaxed, trying to calm his frantic heart with a hand over his chest. "Dad, could you not-.." He stilled for a moment, taking note of the situation.

Dark, his father sitting in the dark, speaking up only as Stiles approached. Only the kitchen light was on, as a dim service of illumination. Stiles looked away from the kitchen only a few feet away and back towards his father, or where he assumed he was; despite the dark, the teen was pretty familiar with the positioning of the chairs around the dinning room table.

"Dad?" He asked with a rather disappointed tone. "Dad have you been-"

"Drinking?" The older interrupted, as if curious of his sons following words. "I just learned that werewolves are real, and that your best friend, the son of my friend no less, is one of those things. 'Course I'm drinking." He slurred.

Lightly glancing over his shoulder, Stiles approached the light switch. Without warning he flicked it, the sudden brightness forcing his father to squint.

The older man didn't seem angry, that was a good start. In fact, he seemed bothered, embarrassed, regretful.

Stiles looked to the bottle of whiskey, the only alcohol his father seemed to ever favor. He gaped as he realized the new Jack's bottle was completely empty. "You drank all of this?" He asked, shocked, as he held up the bottle with both hands, presenting it to his dad.

"No, I fed some to the plants that we don't have. Of course I drank all of it!" He exclaimed, though not in an angry gesture. It almost seemed as if though he'd break into a story about when he was young and in love with the expression he had and the way his shoulders slumped.

It made Stiles feel pity for him. He knew this wasn't only about the werewolves, but about the pile that only seemed to be growing on his shoulders. "Ok," He nodded, putting the bottle back on the table before rounding it to get to his dad. "Ok, let's go," He said, placing his hands on his fathers shoulders. "Up to bed mister," He gripped his hands, beginning to heft his drunk father from the chair.

But his nurturing was put to a sudden stop when the older mans arms lashed out, shrugging Stiles hands off as if though his son was contaminated. "Don't you tell me what to do!" He yelled, turning to look up to his son, glaring.

Stiles hands remained over his fathers shoulder, eyes wide at the sudden change in mood. He remained there, completely stupefied for a few more seconds before nodding slowly, reality setting in. "Ok." He whispered, backing away, hands up in a defensive gesture. "Ok, no problem. I'll leave you to it." He shrugged, backing further towards the kitchen door. "I'll just…" He paused in thought. "Go." He finished, not wanting to hint where he'd be in case things went from bad to worse.

"Oh, _yeah_," His dad groaned as he huffed, rolling his eyes, looking away. "You go run away now. Like your _mom_." He sneered. "Always running away, like a bitch with her tail n'between her legs." He slurred, shaking his head as he glared at the table. "Never gettin' the situation** taken care of**. Standing there like a **dumb shit** as her **scum** of a** boy toy** plays with _our_ **son**." He clenched his fists, breathing heavy. "You know, Stiles," He paused, shaking his head with a low chuckle. "You remind me so much of her. Your _mom_." He added, as if he wasn't clear. He slowly lifted his head, looking towards a petrified Stiles. "Not only in looks," He shrugged, stating that rather off handedly. "But in **personality**." He emphasized with a nod, staring at his son dead in the eyes, his sudden glare not faltering in the least.

Stiles stood completely still for a moment before he slowly nodded. "Y-.. Yeah. Thanks." He added, as if his fathers silence was only there in waiting for an answer.

But apparently, that was not what his father wanted. In another sudden quick motion, the older man slid an arm across the table as he abruptly stood, the empty glass that sat before him flying off the table and hitting the wall, glass exploding upon impact; the sound deafening.

With little control over his reactions, Stiles flinched, taking a step back, mouth opening lightly as he mutely gasped, glancing towards the mess. But he quickly settled his presentation, not wanting to provoke his father with any signs of weakness.

As if not knowing what he had done, his father looked towards the mess behind him for a long moment before nodding. "See what you made me do?" He muttered, his nodding coming to a stop as he instead just stared at the shards of glass. "That was my favorite drinking cup too." He added, seemingly mournful as he turned to face Stiles. "And now it's** broken**." He tilted his head, brows knotted. "Now it's _**gone**_."

The emphasis didn't go by unnoticed, and it proved to Stiles that those words held a deeper meaning.

His fathers face fell lightly. "And it's your fault." He whimpered, as if trying to hide what seemed like a man almost in tears.

Stiles knew that this was no longer about a broken class cup.

His father turned behind him quickly, lowering down then raising up in such a fast motion, his intentions didn't quite make sense to him. "**It's _all_ your fault!**" He yelled.

Stiles glanced towards his fathers hand.

No, this was no longer about his broken scotch or whiskey glass.

This was about his mother.

Without hesitation, his father closed the gap in between them, raised his arm over his son with one swift motion, his mournful glare never leaving the horrified golden eyes of the teen in front of him.

Stiles could only stare at his father, paralyzed with fear, as a glint of light bounced off a rather large piece of glass; the teen only managing to glance at the object in the drunk older mans vice grip before it came down at him.

* * *

**A/N** - And now you can hate me.

I love cliffhangers. Don't you?

Why does this story of angst exist? Well,** I'm only on the fourth episode of the second season**, but I've noticed how there are hardly any fics on Stiles child abuse history. I find that dark bit of history very fascinating, and rather than throw this into lala land of romance and slash, I wanted to write something that seemed like it could actually take part in the show.  
No, I'm against slash. I used to be a HUGE slash pairing junkie. But it fades with age, and I really want this to be as is, if not better, than the show.  
A lot of things I don't notice in other fics is Scott's friendship, and that's mostly because they hate how he's attached to Allison. Well, now that I'm older and over hating female characters, I quite like Allison. Not love, but like, just like I like Lydia. I think the only character I hate at the moment is Jackson. But other than that, nothing. So this won't have incredible butt hurt statements about Scott's relationship, and won't make the girls look like they belong in some whore pent house with a zip code from hell.  
That being said, I just wanted to make my approach rather clear.

In other news, I'm in the college life with a marvelous time consuming schedule, so I don't know my update schedule. I'll write the next chapter around a few days, depending on how this story goes.

Thanks for reading, hope it wasn't too long. Please tell me what you think. Yes, you can pour your feels too.

**ALSO, REMEMBER THIS IS A.U (Alternate Universe), but i'll follow along with the show with this twisted in there like a beautiful knife.**


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